


Twenty Questions

by TheSpookyKabuki



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Amaurot, Amaurotine Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), F/M, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:13:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26222443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSpookyKabuki/pseuds/TheSpookyKabuki
Summary: "What are you gonna do when you grow up?"Kids always want the time to pass faster. To grow up so they can stay up late, eat chocolate cake for breakfast, and watch the forbidden channels on the television. Adults want to return to the halcyon days of their childhood. Emet-Selch just wants to return home by any means necessary.
Relationships: 14th Member of the Convocation of Fourteen/Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch, Emet-, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Original Character(s), Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 1
Kudos: 23





	Twenty Questions

**Author's Note:**

> Hello. This is my first story here. It's short and maybe not all that good, but it's really a test chapter I scribbled down while I create outlines for an Emet-Selch/WoL fan comic I'd like to make. If you read this, I thank you very much for your time and I hope you enjoy this drabble.

"What are you gonna do when you grow up?"

Legs poked through the safety railing and feet dangling thousands of fulms above the city, they sit together on the edge of the Akadaemia's tallest spire. An empty plate bridges the small space between them and it bears the crusted remnants of icing from the sticky buns they shared. He glances at her, his eyes widening as a thick braid slides out from beneath her hood and tumbles over her shoulder. Her fingers wander up and stroke the braid idly, the same way she might pet a cat that settled on her lap.

He finds himself jealous of her hand. Nothing exists that he would not give to be able to touch her hair, black as rich soil, he thinks and he doesn't stop to marvel at this revelation. Fussy Hades who hates dirt and keeps his room immaculate... and he wants to bury his fingers in the walking, talking forest floor beside him. The starlight shines down on her, bringing out the mahogany in her curls, but he is far more fascinated by her than the stars themselves.

If she would allow him to caress her, he knows he would even refrain from scolding her for the twigs and leaves caught in her braid.

He looks away, watching the clouds dart across the moon's face; since the moment she described them as fluffy lambs gamboling through a field under the unblinking eye of their shepherd, he cannot see them--nor himself, basking in her radiance--as anything else and he clears his throat.

"I am going to join the Convocation," he says and pride drips from his pronouncement like icicles from an awning. He lifts his chin, the beak of his mask stabbing the air. One day, perhaps, he will actually grow into the nose hidden beneath it. "Emet-Selch has requested both Raphael and myself as his apprentices."

"Yeah? Guess he must notta been gifted with your _esteemed_ presence yet, eh?"

The sound of wood clattering against stone draws his gaze once more and he gawks. She has dropped her hood and removed her mask, and her eyes twinkle brighter than all the lights of Amaurot beneath them. When she casts him a sly, sidelong glance, Hades sputters and nearly bites through his own tongue. He thanks Zodiark for the mask that hides his face; the wood reflects the scorching heat of his cheeks right back at him and he huffs, turning his head away from the girl beside him.

If he has ever seen a more captivating sight than her sapphire eyes that crinkle at the corners when she smiles at him, he cannot remember it. She is a master thief, he decides, a thief like those he has seen in the plays performed at the Odeon. She must be a descendant of the Lupin he admires in the mystery novels he borrows from the Akadaemia's library. Every time she glances his way, she steals his breath, his wits. His heart seizes up and his tongue stumbles, and he blurts out the first thing that comes to his mind.

Something guaranteed to keep her talking to him.

"Hmph. _Everyone_ is gifted, Persephone." Clucking his tongue, he tilts his head back so far that should it rain, he might drown. " _Some_ people simply open their gifts sooner than others."

A wicked smile curdles his lips as he warms to their game and he returns her glance from the corner of his eye. 

"And _some_ never open their gifts at all, it seems. What a pity, hm?"

"That so." 

The way she says this, it doesn't sound like a question. Her mouth curdles and she turns her head, considering him through a squint. She inspects him from head to toe and back again, and he wonders what she sees. What she thinks of him. For a brief moment, he wonders if she can see straight through him. If she can see down into his soul, the same way he can see hers shining brighter than the sun inside her.

"You _do_ have a gift, I guess," she finally admits, her tone begrudging. She shrugs as she turns her head, presenting him with her profile. Scrunched up in a pout ten times as sour as the crabapples they once ate, her face matches her voice and he wants to gloat at her, wants to congratulate her for finally, _finally_ recognizing his brilliance. 

Even if he shares that brilliance with Raphael. Like a punch to the gut, this reminder knocks some of the wind from his sails and he slouches, his brows knitted together.

But when her lips twitch and she peeks at him from the corner of her eye, his grin returns. Grows wider. He braces himself for the rest of her "compliment."

"I've never met someone so _gifted_ with such a big head." She sighs, shaking her own head in imitation of the adults who often reprimand her for her mask gone askew, for the mud caked on the hem of her robe. "And I'll never understand why, since you have absolutely nothing to fill it with."

The laughter rushes out of him, a tidal wave of sound and he doubles over with his arms wrapped around his stomach. Though he wants to remain composed, he cannot help his mirth and the way it wracks his lanky frame. Sweet, charming Persephone can _never_ seem to stop herself from rising to his challenges and taking the bait he tosses her way, and her retorts never fail to amuse him. For other people, she is the picture of helpful--if disorganized--cheer and friendliness, and her teachers frequently praise her gentle spirit, her eagerness to lend her hand whenever she can.

Around him, however, her eyes sparkle with pure mischief and she sharpens her tongue on him like Pashtarot running a whetstone over a favoured blade. He loves these evenings spent in her company, the nights on which she removes all her masks--literal _and_ metaphorical. Only he and Raphael ever see the full extent of her soul. Only they two are allowed to hear the quips and rebuttals she usually saves for the stories she scribbles in her notebooks during lectures. That she can be every bit as snarky as he himself delights him more than he cares to admit.

When his laughter subsides and he lifts his head, he finds her running one finger around the end of the plate to gather up the last scraps of sweet icing. She pops that finger into her mouth, her attention on the streets so far below them. This high off the ground, the people look like ants in their dark robes, scurrying from picnic to picnic and his lips flatten out while he considers the future.

"Tell me how it looks."

"What?" 

She is a magnetic pole and he is the compass needle, forever drawn to her. When he chances a look at her, she is watching the Amaurotines on their way home from bureaus, restaurants, theatres. Her hands return to stroking her braid and he winces at the chunks of dried sugar she leaves behind.

"Their souls," she elaborates, and she doesn't look at him. The moonlight makes her blush impossible to discern. " _My_ soul."

She whispers the last part of her request and Hades nods, his own blush unnoticed behind his mask. What can he tell her about her soul when he does not believe any language can truly express the wonder she stirs in him? How can he describe a colour so perfect that it has yet to be named or captured in paint? Every word that comes to mind falls short and he drums his fingers on his thighs while he considers and watches other souls zip across the sky like shooting stars on their way through the Lifestream.

"Their souls are like a kaleidoscope," he mumbles. "Like a field of flowers. I see lots of reds and blues, greens, yellows, purples. Even some pinks and browns. But yours..."

He trails off and steals a glance at her soul without turning his head. She burns at his side, a living bonfire that never fails to warm him. _Zodiark,_ he wishes he knew how to explain it to her. Maybe after they have shared the Eternal Bond with each other, he can _show_ her just how spectacular and unique she is to him. Maybe when they are adults, he will ask her.

"And mine...?" she prompts, and he coughs to hide his embarrassment at the turn his thoughts have taken.

"What will _you_ do when you grow up?" he asks, playing on her sense of fairness by changing the subject. She has already asked him two questions and he has answered the first; now she must answer one of his if she hopes to get any more information from him. They have played this game more than once and his shoulders slump in their relief when she huffs through her nose. The short burst of air sends her bangs momentarily skyward.

"Me? Hmm." She hums, a single thoughtful note and returns her gaze to the night sky. A hundred thousand stars glitter like diamonds sewn into a black velvet gown and her face is wistful. Yearning.

He wants to see her turn that same look on _him_.

"I'm gonna travel the world," she says in the distant voice of someone a million malms away. "Go where the wind takes me." Draping her arms over the railing, she stretches out both hands, her fingers waggling as though she means to Create a breeze that will carry her far and away.

"You are leaving Amaurot?"

Iron courses down his spine and he sits up straighter, forgetting their game of questions in the icy panic that curls around his heart. His brows knit beneath his mask and his head whips around to face her. Thin lips grow thinner, press together in a hard line and he stares at her with eyes that pierce her sure as any dagger if her next question is any indication.

"Why are you looking at me as though I smashed your prized Concept?" She glances at him, her brows arched and she tilts her head like a puzzled parrot. Her lips purse until they touch the bottom of her nose. "I'm not leaving forever, you know!"

"I-I... I know that!" he stammers, and inwardly, he curses himself for being so obvious. He might have said _Amaurot_ , but he wonders if she heard the words he truly meant to say. _You are leaving_ me? 

Zodiark willing, she noticed none of the plaintive, begging notes in his voice, but his hopes do not lift their heads high. She may not have his gift for seeing souls, but Persephone has never needed the Sight to see straight through him. To understand him on a level he has only encountered in Raphael before her. Her ability to read into him is the spark that ignited their friendship and he knows he must invent a lie and fast before she figures him out.

Turning his head, he leans forward and folds his arms across the railing. He rests his chin on his forearms and forces his body to relax as he attempts to convey the image of a man perfectly at his ease rather than a boy struggling to navigate the pitfalls of a first love.

"I'm just looking forward to the peace and quiet I'll finally have," he scoffs, but he refuses to look at her. "That's all."

A sharp elbow prods his ribs with a gentle, practiced touch and she laughs when he grunts. Her laughter is wind chimes in a spring breeze.

"Don't worry," she chortles. "When I come back, I'll have so many stories to tell, you'll never have to suffer another moment of silence!"

"What kinds of stories?"

He rubs his side with one hand and rolls his chin across his other arm so he can gaze at her. She tips her head back and with her hands planted on the rooftop behind her, she rests her weight on her arms. Her eyes scan the sky as if she can read her future spread out among the glittering lights, but Hades cares little for the heavens and their predictions.

 _His_ heaven is sitting right beside him, the ghost of a lopsided smile on her lips. She beguiles him more than any star and he stares at her, fascinated by the hair that curls around her tanned cheeks, feathers her brow, and spills over her shoulder.

"All kinds," she murmurs, her eyes glassy as she daydreams. "Adventures. Mysteries. Comedies. Horrors." She pauses, peeking at him from the corner of one eye. Hades immediately turns his attention back to the sky and hopes she did not catch him gawking at her.

"Romance."

Her voice is quiet. Softer than goosefeathers.

"W-well." He clears his throat and roses bloom in his pale, hidden cheeks. The idea that someone else might be given leave to worship her soul digs an uncomfortable pit in his belly. "I am sure Raphael will be more than happy to listen to you blather on and on."

 _And so will I_ , he thinks, but the words that escape his mouth sound much different.

"He already wastes plenty of time begging Azem for all his tales."

She turns to face him fully then, and her ghostly smile takes on actual life. Persephone grins up at him, the gap in her snaggled teeth like a black hole in the midst of pearls. One of her front teeth finally fell out last week and he finds himself wishing it might never grow back. In all his short life, he does not think he has ever seen anything more charming than her overbite, her crooked grin.

"Pfft! To hear Lahabrea tell it, _Raph_ doesn't just use his ears as handles for a pretty jug," she retorts. "Unlike a _certain_ someone I know who spends his lectures building paper airplanes out of his notes."

He can't stop the smirk that twists his lips at the reminder of their Conceptual Theory teacher and his frequent lamentations regarding the shadow Hades' laziness casts over his brilliance. His smirk slides off his face a second later when he realizes she used the word "pretty" to describe him and his eyes widen as she leans forward. Is this it? Is this her love confession? Will she actually kiss him? Will he finally discover whether or not she tastes of the pomegranates he can smell on her robes each time she draws close to him? 

He closes his eyes, ready for--

"Don't worry," she repeats, and she taps the nose of his mask with one finger. His eyes pop open and he stares down at her, grateful for the black lenses that hide him and uncertain whether the sudden tightness in his chest comes from disappointment or relief. An invisible hand squeezes his lungs and he chews on his lower lip. He has never kissed a girl.

"I'll save all my _best_ stories for _you,_ " she is saying when he tunes back in to the conversation. "And I'll write 'em all down as I travel. I'll come back and turn 'em all into plays and they'll be the crowning jewel of the Odeon. And then I'll take you to see 'em."

"Then I will wait for you. For as long as it takes."

The words slip out of his mouth before he even realizes he's said anything at all. When she beams at him and she laughs and she claps her hands, the stars shine brighter and wild roses bloom in the soil that is her hair. He bites the inside of his cheek and averts his eyes, torn between the strange warmth that blossoms inside him at the sight of her happy, spontaneous Creation and cursing himself for saying something so foolish and sentimental. His hands clench in the lap of his robes and he grits his teeth. Even to his own ears, he sounds like some moonstruck comedian on the Odeon stage, pouring his heart out to the heroine who will never return his affections.

But as she falls over to lay on her back, hands stretched out high above her as if she could touch the stars, he cannot help the way his eyes return to her. If he is the grumpy bear his mother often calls him, then Persephone is the honey that soothes his temper. He burns the image of her smile into his memories and when he opens his eyes, it is just in time to catch a glimpse of a colour he knows better than his own face. A colour that flits and darts like a lone firefly across a field of drab ants. He watches from his seat atop the Ostall tower as the familiar soul flees Lakeland for the relative safety of Il Mheg.

"Then again," he murmurs, staring down at the hands clasped in his lap. "With a soul such as that... Mayhap there is another way. One which does not require bloodshed..."


End file.
